


Litchi chinensis

by Silkblood



Series: Goretober 2018 [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Choking, Eye Trauma, Forced Self Harm, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2018, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Violence, a bit self indulgently cruel will graham, autocannibalism, eye eating, forced eating, forks of different kinds, hannibal is only there to watch and enjoy the show, human leg eating, literally the direct followup of the post credits scene, mention of torture and murder SKETCHING, poor bedelia, temporary blindness by blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16267964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silkblood/pseuds/Silkblood
Summary: After all, Bedelia was quite sure that the mastermind behind her butchering journey wasn’t exactly the same one that originally threatened to make a meal of her.





	Litchi chinensis

**Author's Note:**

> i'm SO excited to do goretober, and so excited to post day 1 so late. it is going to be a mess, and i'm taking this opportunity to practice a lot with this kind of stuff. i ended up not following one particular list, but a mix of several, and this first one is from [this](https://ezrablakewrites.tumblr.com/post/178054763039/first-time-writing-my-own-list-for-goretober-and) one that @ezrablakewrites on tumblr compiled, because i love it. last but not least, super thankful thanks to [@Skamzombie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skamzombie/pseuds/Skamzombie) for correcting my messy grammar and reading this Thing over and adding delightful comments such as "self vore: complete", love u as always. Vore power!

Roasted leg could have become her favorite dish, with the right disguise and the knowledge that it wasn’t her own. But in these circumstances, she needed to savor it and love it and show it. And wait. And wait for a good moment to strike.

Such a moment would be hard to spot, though, and she could as well be dead before she had a chance to take the first bite. That was untrue. She was still in a house where good manners were highly regarded, and they would let her, as the guest of honor, have the privilege to taste herself before anyone else in the room. Even though the way she had been captured and had a limb removed with just a few ccs of anesthesia less than what was necessary suggested a certain lack of politeness. After all, Bedelia was quite sure that the mastermind behind her butchering journey wasn’t exactly the same one that originally threatened to make a meal of her.

So her moment could be now, or later, or never, and she couldn’t be sure if she was being watched right now so she slid a hand on the table as swiftly as possible and brushed the plate as she took her oyster fork: small enough to fit in her fist, thin and ending in two sharp tines. She rested her hand on her lap as she tried to keep the most natural posture she could muster, and in any other circumstance it could have been convincing if not for her labored breathing, her chest heaving like the flesh knew how susceptible it was to heat.

She stared at the seat on the opposite end of the table, then at the one positioned at the center, and wondered which seat they would occupy. Normally, she would only imagine Hannibal sitting at the head. This time, though, she knew her butcher. He had ordered the meat in advance, in her studio, and by Hannibal’s way of looking at him when she had a chance to catch it, she knew he’d be like a proud teacher. He would watch. And Will Graham would be staring in her eyes without pause as he put a bite of her leg in his mouth, maybe lowering his eyelids for a second as he made sure to take in the flavor. However the meat was cooked, she imagined a heart of blood, waiting at the center of the dish as a treat and, if properly cut, only exploding in the mouth when pressure was applied. She imagined Will Graham chewing on her leg as thin rivulets of blood spilled from his lips, painting his skin, and his smile, subtle but poignant, only meant for her. Except the other spectator would be always present, always gorging on the sight, fully knowing the show was a love letter thrown his way.

The door opened. Will Graham was the first to appear in the doorway, clad in slick dark clothes, and the warm light cast on his face by the candles. She could have felt special, in a twisted sort of way, that they took the time on their escape to put up a fancy dinner with appropriate wardrobe, for her; but she felt the stinging feeling of derision poking her back like a sharp spear, every ornament in the room a laugh in her face, every candle a reminder of her time melting away, lighting up the sacrifice. Her former patient didn’t immediately look up at her; he took the time to adjust his white collar as he stopped in the middle of the room, maneuvered his fingers around the clear cotton, fixed his jacket. “Good evening, Bedelia,” he finally said, smiling. He then made his way to the table approaching the seat opposite to her, like she predicted, but then going around it and taking instead the middle seat. Of course, she thought, that was closer.

Hannibal, in tow, had somehow remained hidden until that moment, as if covered by shadows, and shot her a look between pleased and apprehensive. “It really pains me to see you like this, not even being able to use a little voice for a greeting. Have you lost your tongue, Bedelia?”

He visibly reveled in his own choice of words, while Bedelia stared at his subtle grin.

“It pains you?” She asked, almost scoffing.

“Don’t act surprised,” he replied, “you have no idea of the amount of genuine distress I’ve been through these past few years.”

“Maybe I do have an idea,” she said sparing a look at Will, who was intent in listening like someone who had already made up his mind, “if you’re being so reckless to risk your safety in order to satisfy a lover’s grudges. You must have fallen prey of forces you hadn’t entirely succumbed to quite yet.”

Hannibal took the time to straighten a fork next to his plate, licking his lips as if pondering over how much he was about to be honest with himself, “indeed,” he said, “maybe you’re right.”

They looked at each other. She would wait, wait for them to come close.

“So,” began Will, his eyes focused on the leaves wrapping the meat in neat ribbons like he was trying to remember a detail, in truth just acting out a script he was writing in his head in that very moment, “shall I have the honor?” He stood, chair grating on the floor, and Bedelia flinched.

“Oh, no,” he said to her, noticing her reaction, “don’t fret, I get that my sudden movement may have been rude, but I just want to cut the meat,” he finished as he looked at Hannibal, who smiled at him.

“I’m starving.”

“You-” Bedelia started accusatory out of impulse but controlled herself with a deep breath, “you should cut it already, I’m also starving.”

At that, Will took in her words and her face and shaky breathing, then stabbed the leg with the carving fork and took the knife, refined and sharp. If only she had the ability to get up and point it at his own neck, his own face, maybe stabbing one of his eyes. He would lose the nerve to observe shamelessly upon misery and death, or look at her with the vile gaze reserved to pigs. He would keep an eye just to watch her take it away.

After Will filled his own plate, the leg was served to Hannibal first, who accepted it with a pleased nod and proceeded to smell it. As soon as Will turned around to give her dinner Bedelia clenched her fist around the fork, which in the meantime had become slick with sweat. She tried to adjust the position of her fingers so that it would be easier to properly grab it, her shoulders tensing with each step he made in her direction.

Will reached her side and leaned closer to her plate. She let him fill it, keeping the fork well folded in her hand.

He went back to his seat and wished a bon appétit.

It was the eating sounds that did it, she remembered them from her memories three years prior: they had lived in her head as she wondered how he would do it, when, using what brand of cutlery or style to set the table. Would she be given a centerpiece to complement the color of her breading? Pearls, flowers? Would he choose the wine according to both taste and the preference she had in life? The sounds then were nothing too vivid, just a jumble of noises and a gross series of slurping sounds, saliva wetting the lips of those who licked theirs upon the exquisite taste, air being blown on the hot pieces, silverware cluttering on the ceramic, and several humbled, increasingly loud compliments at the feet of the chef. She had stared out a window in Florence at the blurred brown roofs, she had looked over the city as she listened to those sounds, raising an eyebrow, finding them pleasant, relaxing even; she had put the glass to her lips and taken sip after sip of a medicine done with poison she put in herself so that her meat would be lethal to those who dared eat her.

Hannibal would find that disrespectful.

She couldn’t help, however, the feeling of curiosity. How did your sister taste, she had asked while soaking her skin in the bathtub, maybe in an attempt to take out of him the knowledge, to read his mind and read his mouth and feel the taste he surely still remembered. She quickly realized, nevertheless, how so distinctly different her flesh must have been compared to the one devoid of her poison.

What sat in her mind in those days was also something most similar to dreams. She would wake up and feel a pungent taste in her mouth, like metal, or lemon, but more bitter. In those last flashes before consciousness she saw herself sitting at a fully set table, comfortable, listening to one of her favorite arie and putting a bite of herself between her lips.

Will moaned with a mouth full of the same stuff. He chewed slowly, attentively, careful not to miss any flavor and aftertaste and note that was written in the dish. It was incredibly the same as music and it sounded like pain, weeping and a strange, suffocated kind of screaming.

“Bedelia,” called Will, not looking at her, “why aren’t you eating?”

Bedelia gasped and tried to gulp back the panic, her grasp on the fork now so strong it made her palms numb. She had to let it go and grab the other fork, the one she needed to eat; she couldn’t risk getting caught. She loosened her fist, trembling, and the oyster fork fell on her lap, shiny among the sequins of her dress. Raising the hand was heavy, excruciating, but she managed to pose it on the level of the table and take her fingers close to the other forks.  
“Oh, I know,” chimed in Hannibal, “there are many pieces of cutlery, aren’t there. It’s understandable to be confused,” he concluded with a smile.

“I’m well acquainted with formal manners at dinner,” she said after taking in a shaky breath, and finally stabbed the food.

“I do know that, but I thought you to have some doubts about it, since you seem to have taken the initiative to fix a false flaw in the table setting, which I deem unnecessary as, clearly, I do not think there was any mistake with the cutlery. Moreover, you as the guest of honor shouldn’t inconvenience yourself with such trouble.” He kept his eyes on her, now just the pale shade of the polite smile he’d worn during his line, as if he was trying to dig deep into her conscience and make her blurt it out.

Will got up with a start, chair grating against the floor harder than the first time, and paced towards her. Bedelia jolted her weight off her seat, falling on the smooth ground and badly softening the impact with her elbows and arms. She wasn’t able to drag her body an inch away that Will grabbed her shoulders forcefully, pulling her away from the table and stretching, as a result, Bedelia’s only foot that got stuck in an uncomfortable position around one of the chair legs. She choked back a scream and kept flailing her arms helplessly, while Will released his grip and went to remove the shoe that got her stuck instead. Fine, elegant shoe that beautifully complemented her dress, high heel, thin, sharp. Hannibal had chosen it. She managed to twist her torso around to look at his eyes looking at her while he masterfully gripped the shoe in his hand. He was swiftly on her, straddling her chest, close to her neck and being some pressure away from strangling her with the aid of his hands.

With other plans in mind, he leaned in, drew a sharp breath and spoke to her ear, “You couldn’t see what was wrong with the table, maybe this may help,” and with that, he slid his fingers in her hair and gripped, while he raised the hand holding the shoe and planted the heel right in her eye.

Bedelia finally shrieked and put her desperate hands around the wound, feeling the slimy liquids leaking down her face and making a mask of her cheek, her forehead, and her lips. She passed a finger on the length of the heel still planted in her ocular cavity, feeling it, feeling her living nerves. Then she rubbed at her other eye to clear it from the blood, and when she tried to open it her eyelid left on its surface a thin but consistent screen of red, making everything look on fire.

The next thing she felt was a hand squeezing her face and forcing her jaw open, and an object - a fork, being pushed in her mouth.

“Eat,” said Will’s voice. When Bedelia wouldn’t close her mouth and chew, he pushed the fork deeper until she choked and finally accepted the meat. She clenched her teeth for a few moments, leaving the bite stalling in the hollow in front of her tongue, mixing with copious amounts of saliva and blood. It was hard to make her muscles do anything, the pain had numbed every other sensory system as well as rendering her sight basically inexistent, and she couldn’t feel her lips, feel her teeth, feel where her face ended or where she would’ve met a second weapon. It was like burning alive, not living and breathing as she’d always known it but not dead either, yet so close to it she gulped the taste of death down her throat.

She chewed herself. Slowly, with strong bites, teeth creaking, and a silent gaze that stared at the floor flooded with her testimony. She swallowed.

“Good girl,” said Will, “now, since I’m sure you’re curious, but you have no way of knowing, I want you to know that Hannibal is sketching. That’s right, he’s comfortably seated where he gets a nice view of us, you wallowing in whatever’s left of you and me… playing the arbiter elegantiae.”

Bedelia sobbed, lying down but using all that she had to slightly keep herself up with her hands against the floor, soaked and slippery.

“And,” he continued, “what were you gonna do with this?”

She managed to clear her vision enough to see him pick up something from the ground, a little object, and then crouch back down next to her. He put it in front of her face and she finally recognized it: the oyster fork.

“Take it,” he ordered.

She did, almost making it slip from her hands and painting the metal a bright red.

“I know it’s already a little ruined, but… ” he caressed the air around her eye socket, now devoid of the heel that had fallen off into the pool of bodily fluids, like a ghost, “I want you to take the eye out.”

Bedelia would have liked to have a moment of true shock, where she didn’t know what it meant, where she could be confused. She knew exactly what she was expected to do and it probably said something about her that she didn’t waste any time to evaluate the possibilities.

She raised the fork to her face, her hand shaking hard, and she felt him close. Very close. Close enough?

Without a second thought she thrust her armed hand forward, hoping to do some damage, anything. She had turned her head away as an effect of the movement and so she only heard his pained yelp. When she looked ahead again Will was clutching his neck as the blood spilled, wetting his hands. He quickly stumbled to the table to grab a napkin and pressed it on the wound, and soon his hands were replaced by Hannibal’s.

“I’m fine,” Will said, “she missed the artery.”

Bedelia huffed a laugh, letting her head dangle as the sound left her lips; it was distant, but it was all she had. “You are weak,” she told them in a hoarse voice, looking up at them standing so close, Hannibal looking over Will and checking his wound, Will looking at him back, “you have lost… the ability to protect each other. It happened the moment you started to care about one another.”

They turned to her.

“Just know… that you are doomed in this life.”

Will walked over without saying a word, still keeping the cloth pressed to his neck.  
“You will come home early one evening and find that all of you… has been lost somewhere, just… missing” she mused.

Will handed her the oyster fork again.

She took it with a brief, breathy laugh. She went for what was left of her eye and stabbed. She missed the pulp and got the fork stuck instead just above the lower bone of her cavity. Her pained sobs were slightly mitigated as a hand wrapped around hers, still gripping the fork stuck in her socket; the hand pulled to take the metal tines out and, recognising she needed help with the task, stabbed again with vigor, plunging the weapon this time firmly and right at the center. The bulb was at that point completely disfigured, a massive hole living in the middle of it with its borders wrinkled and messy, dirty like a canvas full of fresh paint dripped on it. The hand left hers and guided to make her hold the object firmly.

“Now pull,” said Will, with what sounded like a soft accent in his voice, the first she heard that night.

She did as she was told and felt another piece of her leave her body; a cut wire, a broken link. The pain was almost absent.

She inhaled and exhaled deeply, as deeply as she could while her breath shattered.

“You know what to do.”

She tightened her grip around her initial weapon, the twisted hope she had clutched until the end, now wearing on its top a precious object as a headdress. Barely round, splattered and slithery. The eye’s surface shined under the warm light of the candles, almost looking like fresh fruit. Something refreshing, to be eaten in one go.

The first bite was soft and sweet.


End file.
